She found it rather funny that he always wore the shirt fastidiously tucked in and never wore the ensemble without a stiff brown leather belt. ‘French? But what else?’ ‘I do not like Frenchmen,’ Melusine snapped. Unlocking several doors, he came to a dark vault, that would have rivalled the gloomiest cell in Newgate, into which he thrust Thames, and fastened the door. She was trying to bring her problems to a head, and her mind insisted upon being even more discursive and atmospheric than usual.
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